


Those years are yet to come

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, M/M, Minor Violence, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Canon, Self-Destruction, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 20:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Viktor, working for Anton, does something deliberately stupid. Anton is provoked, but as always, nothing is settled between them.





	Those years are yet to come

“Vitya!”

He doesn’t allow himself to sigh, doesn’t allow himself to show any emotions. He is being watched by others, with pity, with barely concealed glee. No matter.

He tilts his chin up and goes right to Anton’s office, all cold politeness. “Yes, boss?”

Anton is _furious_. There are blotches of red on his gray-pallored cheeks, and his pulse is so visible on his throat, and he’s gripping a datapad so tightly Viktor can hear the creak of plastic even from the door, and it makes him wince in sympathy for the poor thing. Internally.

Externally, he is calm.

It was a calculated risk, taken into account carefully, his boss’s volatility just one parameter among others (He’s not yours, Viktor reminds himself for one hundred and thirty eighth time. And you are not his. It’s just a ruse, and he knows it, and knows you know he knows.)

_[Years later, Anton is infamous for his deadly calm and acidic remarks, while Viktor is losing control over his temper.]_

_[Those years are yet to come.]_

Anton slams the datapad onto the desk, most likely fracturing it. Viktor doesn’t even flinch, only calculates damage. Stay calm. Stay calm. “It would help if you didn’t destroy our assets,” Viktor says evenly. Even though he knows it would rile Anton up more.

Some part of him, the darkest, filthiest part that continues all this despite all reason saying he shouldn’t—that part revels in it. Urges him to do it again.

Watch Anton lose control.

He bites the inside of his cheek, waiting, looking into Anton’s eyes, the color of blood-soaked sand.

“What. The fuck. Did you do,” Anton says with pauses. He’s seated behind his desk, three datapads including the one he’s just shattered on it, along with a few papers, a blueprint of a warehouse that—Viktor glances briefly—is certainly not their own, bills from their arms dealer, and a lonely empty bun wrapper. A honey bun.

Viktor looks back at Anton. Lights are buzzing under the low ceiling. “Could you elaborate, please?”

Anton’s lips go thin.

Ridiculously, Viktor wants to kiss him. No, that dark part wants to kiss him. He can control it. Both of them know what Anton is talking about, but Viktor can’t quit the thrill of self-destruction, the same thrill he feels when he’s about to enter a fight with a rival gang.

The clarity and the phantom taste of blood on his lips.

“You went to that _fucker_ ,” Anton says with such an emphasis on that one word like it’s something so filthy even naming it brings out its stink, “Sergey.”

Viktor is looking down at Anton, but he has no doubt who’s the boss here.

Who is in control, however, is very much in question.

“They put a price on your head,” Viktor says calmly. “But they control the Northern Approach, and if we want to trade with—”

“You _flirted_ with him.” It is said in such a low voice, but it rings in the room nonetheless.

_[In years to come, Anton Rogue would be known as a recluse, with nobody close by his side; Viktor Watcher the same, distant and unapproachable.]_

_[Those years are yet to come.]_

So he did—and he knew word would get back to Anton—and _so he did_. He can’t suppress a little twitch of his mouth—and Anton notices.

Anton is always watching him.

Anton blinks, and something changes in him, in the room. Viktor’s breath hitches. The dark, wild thing in him roars.

Anton leans back on his chair, gaze heavy. “Come here.”

Viktor waits for a moment, just to see Anton’s lips thin again, then moves around the desk, stops just in front of Anton. “Anything else?”

“Come _here_ ,” Anton growls, grabs his hand and yanks him down.

Viktor doesn’t like being manhandled, but he understands what Anton wants of him, and straddles his lap.

The chair groans under their combined weight.

Anton is built like a mole, broad-shouldered and with long and powerful limbs. Viktor is taller and lankier. He can easily plant his feet on the floor even seated on Anton’s lap.

“They have a price on _your_ head, too, идиот,” Anton murmurs. Their lips are just a breath away. Anton smells of old blood—he always does. Old blood and sand. Like a mole. “And you _flirted_ with him,” he adds, and his fingers dig into Viktor’s thighs.

“And,” Viktor says in the same low tone, dropping the calm, “I negotiated a passage for our goods. Don’t I deserve a reward, _boss_?”

“What you deserve,” Anton murmurs, and their lips brush, “is a thorough punishment.” His eyes are dark and terrible and calling to that wild part of Viktor. “Bend over the desk.”

Viktor pulls back. “I am not your toy,” he says evenly—a simple statement, and an untrue one.

“Bend. Over. The desk. Now.” Anton pushes him off his lap, and Viktor gets his feet under himself barely on time. Anger rushes through him, and he curls his bottom lip, bites it.

Anton looks equally furious—and equally aroused.

Viktor wonders, just for a moment, what the boys standing outside might think.

He knows _exactly_ what they think of him. It is all part of the plan, after all.

“Move!” Anton snaps, grabs him by the shirt and twists him around. Viktor struggles, just because it makes Anton push even more.

He gasps when the edge of the desk cuts into his stomach, and then barely avoids his face being smashed on the top. He tries to turn, but Anton pushes him into the desktop, knocking his breath out of him. It’s cold but warming up from Viktor’s skin and breath quickly.

Viktor laughs, feeling wild. “This the only way you show superiority, _Tosha_?”

If there is a Devil the mutants speak of, it’s in this one word, one name.

Anton makes a strangled sound over him, not a roar and not a groan, but something akin to both, and bends over him, pressing the hot bulge of his cock to Viktor’s ass. “One of these days,” Anton rasps, his hands pull Viktor’s shirt out of his pants, sliding under it, short nails scratching skin, “I will strangle you, you—”

Whatever insult he was going to say is smothered in a groan when Viktor presses back. He arches, aching for Anton to push him into the desk, toss him around, claw at him, backhand him.

Anything to beat the wild, dark thing in him into submission, and go on with his plans and calculations and—

His pants are yanked off, exposing him.

“You sick fuck,” Anton breathes into his ear, twisting his left arm so high behind his back Viktor wonders whether he’d get his shoulder dislocated.

He only laughs, at the thought and the words. “Language, Tosha.”

“Fuck you.”

His body is alive with anticipation—of teeth, of more obscenities, of Anton thrusting roughly into him. It would be good.

The alternative is terrifying.

Instead of all this, all those things he craves, there are two fingers pushing into him, thick but slick. Viktor bites into his forearm and wants to shoot himself for rocking back onto them.

“Easy, easy,” Anton murmurs, holding him by the hip and restricting his movements. He releases Viktor’s arm—and holds his hand instead, still pressed to his back.

Viktor closes his eyes tight, whispers over the bite marks his teeth have left on his arm, “Just get it over with.” He doesn’t want this stretch, his easy glide. As though both of them don’t know what Viktor is. As though they can have this without that knowledge wedged between them.

Two fingers become three. Viktor rests his forehead on his arm, trying to focus on the stretch, on the faint dirty sound of it, on his own breathing. On the feeling of his skin being stuck to the desk where his shirt has ridden up.

Not on the way the fingers of Anton’s other hand are curled loosely over his palm. Not on the way Anton is rubbing the center of his palm.

“Get on with it.”

The fingers still, then leave his body, and Viktor whines.

“You are not—”

“Get on with it!”

For once, Anton doesn’t reply. A rustle of clothes, the sound of a zipper—it’s all better and worse than words, at the same time. Viktor doesn’t have to lie, but stays alone with his own thoughts.

He grips Anton’s hand when Anton pushes into him. It hurts, even with lube and stretching, and he breathes in short, shallow bursts, and can’t relax.

“Viktor.”

He bites his arm again.

“Vitya.”

Anton slides out of him, and he cries out in protest. Why is he leaving him? Why won’t he _hurt_ him?

An arm is wrapped around his waist, pulling him away from the desk. Viktor allows it. He’s so tired suddenly, of struggling and fighting and snarling.

Anton settles on the chair, pulls Viktor into his lap. Viktor wants to curl up and cry—or punch Anton until his ribs break.

“Not like this,” Anton murmurs, and Viktor hates the soft warmth of his voice.

Hates himself for staying motionless, cradled to Anton’s chest, while Anton tucks him in, straightens his shirt and jacket, then wraps both arms around him. Holds him close and brushes his lips over his forehead. “I don’t want you to go alone like this to people who want you dead.”

Viktor barks out a laugh. Oh, the irony. He can’t bring himself to put any fire into his reply, but he has to reply. Keep their game up. “I can fight well, you know that.”

“I know. I don’t want you to die.”

“You are—”

“What?”

“Не важно.”

It’s a lie, and not a lie, and Viktor is tired of the tangle of his own thoughts. He closes his eyes, unsated, tired, falling apart. Anton is warm and sturdy.

“I won’t die.”

_[He will die.]_

_[Those years are yet to come.]_


End file.
